


white flag

by cardans



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dream Team SMP Setting (Video Blogging RPF), Blood and Injury, Enemies to Lovers, L'Manberg | L'Manburg on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Love Letters, M/M, Secret Relationship, War, and fall in love, brief appearances from other people, no beta we die like george in manhunt, thats about it, they send letters, they're enemies in like... the literal sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29593407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardans/pseuds/cardans
Summary: You asked me what I think of. I think of winning the war. Of going home to my bed. My home. My cat. But most of all, I think of you. I think of you laughing as you read my letters. Groaning. Shaking your head at my stupid words and run-on sentences.two soldiers exchange letters from opposite sides of the war.inspired by this is how you lose the time war by amal el-mohtar and max gladstone.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sapnap gets shot, and george receives a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story takes place during an imaginary war between l’manberg and the smp. no other wars have taken place; this is the first of its kind. george is on l’manberg’s side because plot. yeah. the two sides of the war are also sort of scrambled because i make the rules. hope y'all enjoy <3

The first letter comes bloody and tied to the base of an arrow.

George doesn’t see it at first, even with his color goggles on. It is, afterall, soaked in blood and sticking out of the thick of Sapnap’s arm. And Sapnap’s movement doesn’t help – he is constantly in motion, either to shift his weight or look over his shoulder or both, at the same time. He is a soldier right to the core, even more so than the rest of their army. His mind never falters, never slows, not when there’s a war to be won. And normally George admires that, but not right now, not when his actions are hindering George’s ability to help.

“Is it out yet?” Sapnap asks. He’s got his head so far turned over his shoulder that George can’t see his face, can’t see if he’s wincing or cringing or cursing the ground that George walks. He doubts Sapnap is, though. Sapnap’s fidgeting can be attributed more to adrenaline than to pain. He’s always had thick skin, even thicker than his skull. It’s another thing George admires when Sapnap isn’t being so damn annoying because of it.

“Almost,” George tells him. Blood-stained fingers wrap around the arrow’s shaft, slipping and sliding against the soaked wood. He pulls it free with a yank. It comes out in one piece, the flint tip shining sharp and deadly. Crimson rushes from the wound. Sapnap doesn’t seem to notice. He jumps up even as the blood runs down his arm, even as it hits the dirt floor of the infirmary in buckets. He almost makes it out before George grabs his shirt, tugs him all the way back. He has to press his feet to the back of Sapnap’s knees to get him to settle again. Sapnap sits on the floor by his legs, annoyed and impatient. Still, he stays. Sits, as George unties the bandana from the crown of his head and ties it around his arm instead. 

“Now are we done?” Sapnap asks, sounding more like a whining child than a capable soldier. George tightens the knot he’s created, watches as blood leeches its way into the white fabric, tainting it like dye. It’s a terrible bandage, but the wound isn’t fatal, and Sapnap is one of the best fighters they have. They need him on the battlefield more than he needs a fully-functioning wrap. 

“Yes. Be careful with it, and come back to the infirmary the second the battle is finished,” George says as he steps away. He picks the arrow back up as Sapnap stands. George stares at the arrow for a moment before saying, “Be safe,” but by then, Sapnap is already gone.

George sighs. He runs his finger along the base of the arrow, as if doing so would get it to release its secrets about the enemy and their formations. The arrow is, of course, an arrow, and it has no secrets to whisper, no advice to give. What it does have, though, is an edge. It resides all the way at the bottom, by the freshly-plucked feathers. It’s so faint, it could very well go unnoticed by someone less observant. But George is as sharp as they come, and he thinks this person knows it, too.

He pulls the feathers off the arrow one by one. Slides the little coil off of the shaft, unrolls it in his bloody fingers. He sees green on the unstained edges, and thinks of a man he’s only ever seen when he’s playing defense. George only knows him by his merciless violence, aided by his speed and agility. And his mask. His god-awful mask. He is an Achilles among men. Forever and always untouched and unwavering, even when everyone is falling to the ground around him. They fought once before, an uneven match. George has never forgotten the way the man smiled when he pinned George, when he held his sword above George’s head. There was a kind of amusement hiding in the white of his teeth, a promise of more. But George had moved to the right, and the point of the sword had sunk into the ground beside his ear, a mere inch off. Amusement faded into shock. George leapt up, snatched the ceramic mask from beside them, where it had lain knocked off since the beginning of their fight. He clutched it to his chest and ran. He only looked back when he was a half mile away. His enemy was nowhere to be found. It was then, between heavy breaths and pounding heartbeats, that George realized just how exciting a war could be.

A war. _The_ war. It is between L’Manberg and the rest of the SMP, simply known as the War. It began a long time ago, so long ago that the constant violence has become a bore. George can’t even remember why it started. He just knows that the two sides fight every day, sunset to sunrise, never losing, never gaining. It’s predictable, and boring, and maybe that’s why George is so infatuated with this fight, with this soldier. Because he needed some change, some excitement, to break up the monotony of the war, and this enemy soldier had been the one to do it. The masked soldier had changed the war for George with that fight, and he’s doing the same now. 

George takes a deep breath and closes the door of the infirmary. Then, with shaking fingers, he takes off his goggles and begins reading the letter.

–––

_Dear Not Found,_

_You’ll have to forgive the deliverance of this letter. I’d hoped you’d come today so that I could deliver this message in person, perhaps with my blade against your throat or with my knee to your chest, but when I looked around, you were nowhere to be found. Ha, get it?_

_Really, I am sorry for your friend and his… arm? Chest? Wherever this lands, I am sure it wasn’t fatal. Be assured, I’m a better shot than that._

_But somehow, I am not better than you._

_I’m getting ahead of myself. You’re likely wondering what this is, but not who. You know, just as I do, of our unfinished business. But, if you need reminding, think of my blood in your mouth and your fist against my jaw. Or, perhaps, simply think of a ceramic mask._

_My ceramic mask._

_I pride myself on being careful with what is mine, yet you’ve still managed to steal my most prized possession from right out from under me. I’d ask you how you managed it, but I already know. You took advantage of my shock and in doing so, took advantage of me. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; you always did fight dirty._

_I’ll write it simply, so there is no chance of a misunderstanding: I want my mask back._

_Leave it where we fought by tomorrow’s sunrise. If you do so, I promise your friend will not die by my hand. This is a generous trade, no?_

_Until next time._

_P.S. In the case that he isn’t your friend – though I’m sure he is – I’ll offer an alternative. Me, begging, for my mask back. Whenever, wherever you want. I’ll even grovel on my knees if you’d prefer. Or perhaps that’s a sight best suited for your imagination, though I am something of a dream myself, or so people tell me._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> clay waits for the sunrise.

Clay feels naked and exposed without his mask.

People gawk as he passes, some in fear and some in surprise. Others, he suspects, may be staring in disgust, but he’s never been one to concern himself with someone else's insecurities. How can he, when he’s so busy with the war?

The war, the one that is both in a perpetual stalemate and constantly being won by Clay. He fights his enemies quickly – lazily. He is so strong, and they are so weak. Not in strength, but in mind. In drive. The L’Manberg soldiers _try_ of course, but it is always shaky and half-hearted, like they have already failed, have already accepted it. But then there was this soldier, this man in blue, who fought with everything in him. He first fought with a bow and clenched teeth and then, after Clay discarded his bow, he fought with bloody knuckles and madness. It was real. It was glorious. Maybe that's why he sends the first letter. 

That's not to say his mask didn't play a part in it. His mask is, after all, _his_ mask. It is, perhaps, a childish thing to get worked up over, but Clay is worked up nonetheless. Everyone has their _things._ The Blade has his room of skulls; Ranboo has his book. And Clay… Clay has his mask.

Had. 

It belongs to the man in blue now, and Clay wants it back. For a while, he waited on the war front for him, like a patient wife. Days passed. Weeks. He never showed. But soldiers did. Soldiers that Clay remembers slashing down, stabbing through. Each soldier credited their return to a man named George, a soldier turned healer. It quickly became clear the man in blue – George – had found something else to occupy his time. And since Clay couldn’t march past enemy lines and find him, he needed another way to get his message across. 

So he shot the man in the bandana. 

Sapnap, he is called. Clay fights him often, always in quick little scuffles. They’ve fought on treetops, on mountainsides, in the middle of the ocean, and in the deep of the lava. They are each other's perfect match, which is how Clay knows he can take a hit. So Clay had let his arrow fly and it landed, burying into the skin of Sapnap’s arm. Once that was done, all there left to do was wait. And wait. And _wait._ He should’ve made the deadline earlier; waiting through the night was _exhausting._

But alas, the sun has broken the night, and Clay is walking towards the location of their fight. They fought beneath the L’Mantree. His sword had cut through more branches than flesh. Though, looking back at it now, maybe that was a good thing. If he’d killed George then, he wouldn’t have gotten to experience _this._ Whatever _this_ is. 

Clay arrives at the tree just as the sky begins bleeding pink. He holds his sword in one hand and a speed potion in the other. He doesn’t think George will try and ambush him, but he figured he should bring one, just to be safe. 

Clay looks at the base of the tree, and sees nothing. He walks all the way around the trunk before tilting his head back to look at the low-hanging branches. The air moves in front of him. He hears a whoosh, looks down, and there it is. An arrow, stuck in the knob of the tree, perfectly centered. By the flint is a piece of paper, hung by what looks like dental floss.

His grip tightens on the handle of his sword. He whips around to where the arrow came from, and sees a blue-clothed back, running the other way. The mask hangs on the back of his head. A taunt, if Clay’s ever seen one.

Despite himself, Clay can’t help but grin. He drops his sword, pulls the arrow from the tree. He hunkers down right then and there, sits with his back against the trunk of the L’Mantree, and opens the letter.

–––

_Dream,_

_Hasn’t anyone ever explained to you the spoils of war? Your mask is mine now. It is a rather pretty mask, you know. I never thought I’d see it up close and live long enough to remember the details of it. Now I don’t even need to remember the details; I can look at it whenever I wish. I can hold it in my hands, look upon its marred surface, and think of you._

_I’ll be honest with you, Dream. You should’ve killed me when you had the chance, for you’ll never get it again. I’m not a warrior. You’re correct in your assumption that my skill with a bow is unmatched, but I’m a man of many talents, and archery doesn’t even make the top five. I do wonder, though, how you knew I’d be the one to find the letter. Anyone could’ve helped my friend. Anyone could’ve found the letter. You knew this – you have proven yourself too smart to not explore each and every possibility – and yet you still sent the letter. Why?_

_Nevertheless, I appreciate the letter, and I enjoyed the reminder of our fight. I’m glad you think of it as often as I. It was my last real fight before I began my break, but I’ve heard from my men that it wasn’t yours. I won’t blame you if the battle is not as fresh in your mind as it is in mine. What I will do, however, is attempt to refresh your memory. Close your eyes and remember the harsh, beating sun against your skin. The look of blood on soil, on sweating flesh. Your fingers, snapping my bow in two. Your mask, thrown to the side._

_Too much?_

_I don’t know why I ask. It’s not too much. You are the best your side has to offer. Surely you can handle some friendly banter. And if you cannot handle it, then at the very least you’ll have an interesting response for me in your next letter._

_Speaking of your next letter… You will be sending one, won’t you? You want your mask, and I want excitement. What’s more exciting than conversing with the enemy? Just one thing – if we’re to keep this up, you’ll have to get better at delivering your replies. My friend can only take so many hits, and besides, blood bores me._

_Deliver it somewhere interesting, or deliver it nowhere at all._

_Best,_

_Not Found_

_P.S. You, groveling? You’re right – that is an image straight out of my dreams._

_P.P.S. I’m kidding. Obviously._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> george unloads a shipment.

A week passes, and George has yet to receive a response.

He should have expected this, but for some reason, the possibility of Dream not responding never once crossed his mind. He’d thought Dream to be as bored as he was, had assumed that boredom would inspire Dream to find something different, something  _ new.  _ George thought that  _ something new  _ would be him, but apparently he was mistaken. George hates that he feels disappointed. Dream is the best soldier on either side of the war – he has better things to do than exchange letters with the enemy. If anything, George has probably  _ annoyed  _ Dream rather than excited him, but George cares less about that. Why should he care? Dream is his enemy and even if he weren’t, even if they were on the same side of the war, they wouldn’t be friends. George’s talent in healing fixes his place in the infirmary, and Dream’s skill with a sword secures his place on the field. Their paths would have never crossed

They should never have crossed in the first place. George wasn’t supposed to be fighting that day. He was only supposed to be guarding the L’Mantree. His post was purely decorative. He was supposed to pass as a fly on the wall, unnoticed and unscathed. But then Dream spotted him and he’d sauntered over, clad in shining netherite armor and carrying a promise of blood. He’d delivered on that promise – George still has the marks.

He looks down at his hands, stares down at the pinking scars. They go horizontal across both palms, a permanent reminder of Dream’s sword, biting into the flesh of his hands rather than softer, more vulnerable skin.

“You reading your palms?”

George’s head snaps up, goggles almost falling off of his face. His eyes find the source of the noise as he pushes them back up, returning the world back to full color. Tubbo stands beside him, a wooden barrel in his arms. He’s a child caught in the middle of this war, he and Tommy both. Looking at him brings on this sense of dread and guilt, so heavy they weigh George down. The only reason he isn’t turning away and avoiding Tubbo now is because they’ve been assigned the same task: unloading the recent shipments from the Badlands. The barrels arrived by minecart and mule that afternoon, diligently delivered by their allies on the outside. 

“No, of course not,” George says. He sets down the box he’s carrying and steps away from Tubbo, the dread already pooling in his stomach, thick and real and heavy as lead. 

“Right. Grab that crate, would you?” Tubbo gestures with his chin towards a barrel. It’s open on top, likely busted open during transit. “It’s too much for me. Might need to call Sapnap for help.”

George doesn’t respond. Instead he goes to the barrel and lifts it even as his back begs him not to. He nearly falls before he stabilizes himself, finding his balance. The crate is so full that George can hardly see over the top. What he can see, however, is green stained paper, wedged between stalks of sugarcane. It blends in seamlessly, appearing as a splinter in a reed. 

His heart picks up in his chest. He doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t think he wants to know, either. George carries the crate to its home with a newfound strength, fueled by surprise and blooming excitement. The glee warms his chest, wraps tendrils around his ribs. He drops the crate on the ground. Hard. Items spill from the top and hit the ground by his feet. George kneels, begins returning the items to the barrel. Between picking up one reed and another, he grabs the letter and shoves it into his boot. It crumples against his ankle, hidden from view.

–––

It’s only under the cover of night that George finally feels it’s safe enough to read the letter. He sits in his bed with his lantern, curled up in a single corner. He hears an enderman whoosh in the distance. He holds his breath, clutches the letter with white-knuckled hands, half expecting the enderman to teleport in and take it from him.

A second passes. Two.

George exhales, stares at the exit. With trembling fingers and a pounding heart, he reads the letter.

–––

_ Not Found, _

_ You are the worst kind of tease. _

_ First you take my mask, then you try and tempt me with a chase? That’s not very kind of you. What if I’d gone after you? What if I followed you all the way back to your camp, stole a war prize of my own? Your goggles would look nice on my wall. You would, too. But then again, anything of yours would look nice in my possession, so long as it’s yours.  _

_ On the topic of things that are yours, I hope this location meets your expectations. Nay – exceeds them. I’m not even sure of where or how I’ll deliver it yet, but it must’ve been somewhere good, assuming you’ve received it at all. In the case that this doesn’t reach you as soon as I’d like, just know that I’m writing this letter the night after receiving your response. I have to admit, I was surprised to receive any response at all. I underestimated you. You’d impressed me on the field, of course. You were the first on your side to properly fight back, or at least the first to fight for something other than fame. Your friend in the bandana fights well, but he does it for glory. You fought with everything in you, for nothing but your life. You were determined to survive. But I didn’t think that determination would last, and I definitely didn’t think it would come mixed with some desire for a change in routine. To answer your question, that is why I risked everything and sent the letter. I did it because you are one of a kind, Not Found. You were one of a kind when you fought me and you’re one of a kind now. I only know of one other person who’d find delight in treason, and that person is me.  _

_ That is what this is, you know. Treason, committed first by me after I sent my letter, and then by you with your response. It doesn’t matter if it wasn’t the intent, our superiors will see it as such. Or mine will, at least. The Blade has never been one for mercy. _

_ But that’s only if they find out, assuming they don’t already know. You didn’t tell yours, did you? _

_ No. _

_ I know you better than that. You’re searching for excitement and you said it yourself: what is more exciting than sleeping with the enemy? Besides, you hinted at something in your response. “In your next letter,” you’d said. How did you know I’d send another?  _

_ This letter is getting long – I’m running out of space. You left me instructions with your last note, so I suppose it’s my turn to do the same. Deliver your next letter somewhere blue. It doesn’t matter where. I’ll find it. I’ll find any gift you leave me. _

_ Write back soon, _

_ Dream _

_ P.S. I hope this delivery is interesting enough for you. I’ve been camped in the desert every night for six days now, waiting for a chance to plant my letter. All I’ve been doing is reading and thinking. I’ve reread your letter enough times that the paper has gone cotton-soft. I’m afraid I’ll tear it if I read it again. I’ll treat your next letter better, I promise. _

_ P.P.S. I still want my mask back. _


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> clay goes to the beach and climbs a tree.

Clay has always loved the beach.

The beach is SMP territory, so far from the war front that it's excluded from it altogether. It’s never been infiltrated or touched by L’Manberg. Clay doesn’t expect that to change now. To get to the camp, one would have to go through the war front and then through their camps. It’s impossible. Scouting the shore is more honorary than it is necessary. It’s mostly done to give soldiers something to do during their off-time, which is just fine by Clay. Blue water trumps spilled blood any day of the week.

“What is that?” 

Clay looks at Techno. Techno stands stopped in front of a tree, pointing up at a birdnest. 

“A birdnest,” Clay tells him. 

Techno rolls his eyes. “Well, obviously,” he says in that low monotone of his, chronically bored and annoyed. “There’s something in it. Check it out, will you?”

For a moment, Clay considers telling him no. The nest is a hundred feet up and Clay didn’t bring his feather-falling boots so if he falls, he’s dead. But Techno is his commander, and Clay’s never failed at anything before, so instead he sighs and nods. Clay climbs the tree quickly, hands finding knobs and grooves to clutch at. He reaches the nest and takes a seat on the branch beside it. 

Clay looks down at the nest, and sees nothing but robin eggs. They’re blue and cluttered in the tiny nest, so closely packed that Clay almost can’t see the straw at the bottom. 

No, not almost.  _ Can’t.  _

Clay takes another look, his brows knitting together. He picks one of the eggs up gently, careful not to crack it. He stares down at cream-white paper, and cream-white paper stares back at him. It is folded and unaddressed and his. 

He looks around and sees all of the blue surrounding him as if for the first time. In the water, in the sky, in the shells of the robin eggs. He asked for the letter to be delivered somewhere blue, but he never intended for this. He never intended for George to risk his life to deliver this letter. How did he even get it up here? How did he get through the SMP camp without being caught? How did he get back to L’Manberg without getting caught?  _ Did _ he get back to L’Manberg?

Clay’s stomach sinks, and it is suddenly very hard to breathe.

“Well, did you find anything?”

Techno’s shout brings him back to reality. Clay shakes his head and holds up the blue egg, trying to mask his worry. Techno waves the find off with a hand. Clay stuffs the letter in his pocket as Techno walks away to check on something else. He returns the egg to the nest and, on his climb back down, tries to think rational thoughts. 

If George were caught, Clay would’ve heard about it. Hell, Clay probably would’ve been the one to find him. George likely made it out. It’s an impossible task, but George has conquered the impossible before. He had a proper battle with Clay and walked out alive, a feat not even Sapnap can claim. Clay and Sapnap always fight in pieces, never lasting more than a few minutes. Him and George’s fight had a clear beginning, middle, and end, and felt as though it’d lasted both eons and seconds, all at once. 

Clay is still unfocused even after he’s back on solid ground. His head is clouded with thoughts of George and worries for him. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t shake the feeling of dread he gets whenever he thinks of George, risking his life because of Clay. 

For the rest of the scouting trip, Clay is in his own head. When they arrive back at camp, he goes straight to his bed, his fingers already unfolding the letter. 

–––

_ Dream, _

_ You really camped in the desert for six days? _

_ If you wanted my approval or my validation, you’ve got it. I’m impressed, Dream. I really am. If you really think about it, it’s sort of sweet. You waiting around for hours on end, freezing and alone with nothing but your thoughts and my letter, all so you can give me a response. I don’t think anyones ever done something like that for me. I would say thank you, if you weren’t my enemy, and if I weren’t so worried about frostbite. I know firsthand how cold the desert can be. You didn’t injure yourself, did you? It’d be rather hard to fight with only a few fingers on each hand. But then again, you’d find a way to manage. _

_ While we’re on the subject… What is it you think about? You said in your postscript that you only had my letter and your thoughts. You explained the letter, but never delved into what you were thinking about. I want to know. I’ve never conversed with someone from the other side before, much less with someone as skilled as yourself. I want to know what goes through your head, not just what you were thinking about that night. I want to know anything and everything you’ll let me.  _

_ And just so you know, I am aware this is treason. But this war is long. Has been long. Will forever be long. I love my men. The cause… not so much. It feels as though we’re fighting just to fight, just to have something to do. It feels as though the bloodshed will never end. So yes, Dream, I know this is treason. I can live with betraying my side. Can you? _

_ I suppose you could. You say the Blade is merciless, but would he even punish you? Can he even do so without punishing himself? You’re the best that they have – without you they hardly stand a chance. How does it feel, to be the best? To have an entire army counting on you? _

_ I am not the best, and my men do not count on me, but I’ll still tell you how it feels for me. In the moments where I am able to help someone, where I am able to really, truly, help them, it feels as though I’m a god. I get this rush in my veins, a whole-body thrill. I get jittery, and full of energy, as if I’ve woken up for the first time. Fighting has never given me this effect. Only healing, and you. _

_ You make me feel like this, too. Jittery and godly, like an untapped keg. It’s why I’d said you’d write back to me. Contrary to what you may believe, I didn’t know that you’d write back. I only hoped. I am incredibly glad you did, though. You break up the monotony of this endless war. You give me something to look forward to. I can only hope I do the same for you. _

_ Yours, _

_ Not Found _

_ P.S. I wrote on the thickest paper I could find to ensure it doesn’t wear down as fast.  _

_ P.P.S. Oh no, Dream. I’m keeping the mask. I enjoy its company far too much to ever give it back. I think it enjoys mine, too. After all, it smiles whenever it sees me. I wonder if you’d smile if you saw me…  _


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tommy and tubbo find a bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for the comments and kudos!! i really appreciate you all <3

Three days after George leaves his letter by the sea, Tommy and Tubbo bring him a bird.

They walk into his infirmary, carrying a covered crate. The infirmary is absolutely packed. A creeper snuck up on one of the group tents. George spent the entire night sewing limbs back on and hadn’t yet gotten a chance to sleep. So when he sees Tommy and Tubbo come in, with their youthful energy and head-splitting laughter, he’s more than a little grumpy. 

“No,” he says immediately, standing up from his chair in the corner. His thighs ache when he stands, and burn even more when he walks. “Out. I mean it.”

Tommy gives him this look, all raised eyebrows and a knowing smile. “Gogy, you haven’t even heard us out!”

“Yeah, you don’t even know why we’re here!” Tubbo interjects. He bounces a little when he speaks, shaking the crate in his hands. George hears the start of a noise before Tommy coughs obnoxiously over it.

“I don’t want to know,” George tells them, crossing his arms. “Seriously.  _ Go.  _ People are trying to sleep.”

From the corner, Quackity shouts, “Yeah, we’re trying to sleep!”

“But– but you’re a doctor, and this is an infirmary. And  _ we, _ ” Tommy gestures with his hands. Tubbo pulls the cover from the crate, “need your help,” Tommy finally finishes. He and Tubbo both step towards George. Tubbo’s got the crate thrust out in his arms, looking real proud of himself. 

A stronger man wouldn’t entertain them, wouldn’t reinforce their bad habit of barging into adult spaces. But George has never claimed to be a very strong man, and so he puts his goggles on and leans over the crate. He looks into it. There’s a large green bird with a yellow beak and beady eyes, staring up at him. It chirps once. Twice. George looks back at the boys, uninterested. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

The boys answer at the same time.

“He’s hurt!” Tommy.

“He can’t fly!” Tubbo.

“I only know how to help humans. Sorry.” George walks back to his seat and sits, finally giving his legs the break they deserve. He pulls off his goggles and tucks them back into his pocket.

Tommy and Tubbo rush over to him. “Can’t you at least try?” Tubbo asks. He’s still got the crate held out like an offering.

“Y’know what,” Tommy starts. He’s got this evil glint in his eye, and a mischievous smile growing on his face. “We’re not leaving until you try to help him.”

Tubbo nods, his smile matching Tommy’s. “Yeah, like a protest!”

“Yes, Tubbo, exactly like that. A protest,” Tommy says. Now they’re both nodding with those annoying smiles. George can feel the headache coming on now. He has no doubt that they’re telling the truth – they really will sit in here all day until he helps them. It’s because of that that George finally gives in. 

He takes the crate and puts it on his lap with gritted teeth, his hand going right for the bird. He grabs the now yellow parrot with a gentle grip, setting it in his palm. George runs a finger along its little body, first from beak to tail and then from wing to wing. His finger hits a groove on the second pass across the bird's left wing. Frowning, he nudges the tip of his finger beneath the feathers, and feels something distinctly man-made. He presses his finger in further; the bird squaws and bites his thumb. 

George curses. “Hold it still, will you?”

Tommy, for once in his life, listens. He helps to hold the bird still as George pries the foreign object from beneath the bird's wing. The second it's out, the bird is up and flying around the room, and out of the infirmary altogether. Tommy and Tubbo race after it without so much as a thank you, leaving George with an empty crate and an unknown object.

George looks at it for the first time. It’s thick and yellow and creased all over. Paper, folded into eighths. A letter. 

He glances around the room again, glances at Quackity. Everyone, including Big Q, is sleeping soundly. George shifts in his seat, takes another look around, and opens the letter. 

–––

_ Not Found, _

_ You don’t know what those words do to me. What you do to me. _

_ Jittery and godly, you said. It’s different for me. You make me feel… challenged. And grounded. And hopeful, in a way. You are a reminder that there is more to life than constant fighting and never-ending violence. There is also fun, and laughter, and this. Whatever this is. I don’t want to put a name to it, for fear of ruining it, but I need you to know that it’s important to me, too. You are important to me. More than this war, than my armor. Maybe even more than my mask.  _

_ Or maybe not. I’m still deciding on that one.  _

_ (I’m joking, of course. But you knew that already.) _

_ I apologize for skipping so far ahead, but I couldn’t write without first addressing it. I didn’t injure myself, by the way. In the desert. I had a campfire going all night. My hands were perfectly safe. I appreciate your concern for them, though. I didn’t know my fingers were so important to you. I’ll keep that in mind for the next time we meet, whether that be during our next fight or during something else…  _

_ You asked me what I think of. I think of winning the war. Of going home to my bed. My home. My cat. But most of all, I think of you. I think of you laughing as you read my letters. Groaning. Shaking your head at my stupid words and run-on sentences.  _

_ I think of your hands on that borrowed bow, pulling the string taut, delivering that first response. Of you running through my camp, leaping through the trees, hiding your letter beneath blue robin eggs. I think of how focused you must’ve been, how determined. And I am impressed by you all over again.  _

_ It’s because of this that I can live with betrayal. I can live with treason. My heart has never been in this war. I fight because I should, because it’s what’s expected of me. Because I know of nothing else. The Blade knows this, of that I’m sure. He is a friend to me now, but if given the chance, he would tear me into shreds. That’s the kind of person he is. He is merciless and brutal and loved more for it. It’s why he’s our commander. But I don’t want to talk about him. I want to talk about you. I want to learn about you.  _

_ What do you love? Where do you love – what place do you love the most?  _

_ Love, _

_ Your Dream _

_ P.S. I hope you like Bird. She’s trained to come back to me, but if she happens to stick around, she likes beetroot seeds and scratches under her chin.  _

_ P.P.S. Leave your next letter somewhere unexpected. _


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> george takes a trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's quite a few cameos in this one. hope you enjoy <33

This may be George’s worst idea yet.

He’d first thought of it last night, after reading Dream’s letter. He’d been lying in bed, eyes shut tight, thinking of Dream. Of what it would be like to meet him. Would he smile like he did that first day? Would he laugh and poke and tease, like he does so freely in his letters? Or would he be something different entirely, something new and not yet discovered? 

George fell asleep to that thought, and dreamed of nothing but green and red and wild eyes. When he woke the next day, Dream was still on his mind. His head was full of _grovel on my knees,_ and _so long as it’s yours,_ and _Your Dream._ He can think of nothing but Dream’s words on that paper, his touch on George’s skin. It muddles his head, makes it hard to focus. So much so, that his apprentice, Niki, sent him home from the infirmary early.

“You gotta get more sleep or something,” she’d said, her fingers in Wilbur’s calf. “That’s the third set of stitches you’ve messed up today. Just go home, get some rest. Come back when you can think straight.” Niki dug in deeper; Wilbur went bone-white. She braced a hand on his knee before she yanked all the way out, pinching a broken arrowhead between her bloody fingers. Wilbur gagged when he saw it, and George turned around and walked right out, not even bothering with making an argument. He’d known his head wasn’t in the right place then, just like he knows it isn’t in the right place now.

Self-awareness still isn’t enough to stop him, though.

George stares at himself in the still water of a lake, a hundred blocks outside of the SMP camp. He doesn’t recognize himself. He’s dressed in tattered clothes, battlefield worn. He’s got layers of them on, making him appear bulkier than he really is. He’s covered from head to toe, not exposing even an inch of skin. In one hand, he holds a folded letter. In the other, a ceramic mask.

If someone were to ask him why he was doing this – why he was dressing up and sneaking into an enemy camp – he wouldn’t have an answer. Maybe it can be accredited to stupidity, or boredom. Or maybe it’s just because George is a selfish fool that _wants._ He wants more than letters. He wants Dream himself. 

But he can’t have Dream, can’t risk both their lives arranging a meeting, and so George decided that seeing Dream’s space, his home, was the next best thing. It’d tell him more about Dream more than any letter could. And besides, what was a more unexpected place than in your own bed? 

George takes another look at himself in the water. He releases a shuddering breath and pulls his hood over his hair, covering the dark strands completely. Then he puts the letter in his pocket, ties on the mask, and begins the walk into the SMP camp.

–––

It takes him five minutes to arrive, and six to be recognized.

A man comes up from behind him. He is tall and scruffy and built like a lumberjack. Dressed like one, too. He claps George on the back so hard, George thinks his hood is going to fall off.

“You found your mask!” the man tells him. His voice is kind, his blue eyes gentle. George feels threatened anyway. His head pounds in his chest, in his throat. He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it abruptly. He can’t talk. His voice will give him away. 

The happiness on the man’s face fades to confusion. George has been standing here for too long, staring at him and saying nothing. He knows something is up. He knows, he knows, he knows. 

There’s a noise by his feet. A tug on his pants. 

The man looks down. George mirrors the action, his eyes landing on a little white dog with a black nose. The dog's teeth are fully sunk into the cuff of George’s pants, pulling with all its might. It’s growling and growling, all bark and apparently all bite, too. George looks back up at the man and tries to school his features into something calm and relaxed. Then he remembers – he’s wearing the mask. The man can see nothing but cold ceramic. 

The lumberjack looks up, embarrassed and apologetic. There is no trace of question on his face, no confusion. “Sorry Dream, Link’s been acting up lately,” he says, like that explains it all. George can only nod as the man leans down and scoops the dog up. Link goes quiet, seemingly pleased. The lumberjack bids George a goodbye before he walks away, scolding Link as he goes. 

George shuts his eyes, unclenches his tight jaw. That was too close. He hadn’t thought this plan through. He wore the clothing and the mask so that he wouldn’t be recognized as an enemy – he never expected to be recognized as a soldier. As Dream. 

George wants to tuck tail and run. He wants to call this whole thing off and escape with his life while he still can. But he’s already here, with the mask on his face and the letter in his pocket, and to run now would be more suspicious than simply walking away later. 

He forces himself to relax as he walks around the camp, following the gravel path. He spends ten minutes wandering around, looking for the soldiers quarters. He finds them tucked in neat little rows, located at the very back of the camp. They’re real structures, made of wood and stone. They’re not the flimsy tents that L’Manberg has, which is as shocking as it is horrifying. 

After he’s found the barracks, it doesn’t take him very long to find Dream’s home. He sees Dream’s shield, and his sword, and his trident, and he assumes. George crosses the grass to Dream’s shelter, walking faster than before. Sweat beads on his forehead, collects on his upper lip. The letter feels red-hot and heavy, like it’s burning right through his pocket. He doesn’t look down and check.

He reaches Dream’s house. He walks right into the empty space. it’s small, barely a five by five square. There’s a yellow – green? – bed in the middle, unmade. There’s a picture frame on a double chest by the bed, holding a photo of a cat. There’s clothes strewn about, on the bed and on the floor. It’s less cluttered than George expected, but somehow more messy. 

George goes over to the bed. He picks up Dream’s pillow slowly, as if he’s scared of ruining it. He places his letter beneath the pillow and feels a sort of longing. He wishes it weren’t like this. He wishes he didn’t have to drop this letter off and go. He wishes he could stay here, surrounded by Dream’s life and his things and _him,_ forever. 

But George has a camp to get back to. Friends. A war. 

He takes a final look around the room. He feels… settled. Calmed, in a way. As he leaves the house, he’s not nearly as nervous as before, not nearly as scared. 

Then a hand grabs his collar, and suddenly that all changes.

Suddenly all George can feel is fear and shock and more fear on top of that. It’s running through his veins now, fully replacing his blood as he’s pulled. He’s shoved between Dream’s house and another, his back pressed against a column of stone. His head hits the wall; his hood falls. He stares straight ahead at his attacker in fear. Yellow-gold eyes swallow him whole. Dream stands before him, chest heaving, looking angry and shocked and maybe even a little impressed.

The fear fades. Dream’s hand goes slack by George’s throat. There’s a softness in his touch, in his eyes. It feels suffocating, to have the whole of Dream’s attention on him like this. Not to mention their proximity. Dream’s knee on his chest during their fight was nothing compared to this. Before, they’d been fighting, a foot of space between their faces. Now there are mere centimeters. They’re pressed mask to nose, hand to throat.

George raises his hand. Makes solid contact.

Hand to chest, now. 

People pass. George doesn’t care. _Can’t_ care. Not when their breathing is synched, not when Dream’s staring at him in that way of his. George looks up at Dream from out the eye holes in the mask, and counts his heartbeats. Dream is real. Soft. Not a god, not a Styx-dipped Achilles. He is simply a man. 

Dream smiles. George knew he would. It is big and crooked and made just for George. He leans down, presses his forehead to the top of the ceramic mask. George has never hated an object more than in that moment. Dream blocks the eye holes completely, keeps George from seeing anything but yellow-gold. But that’s okay – George has never wanted to see anything else anyway. His fingers curl in Dream’s shirt; he feels the breath catch in Dream’s chest. Triumph ignites every nerve in his body. He looks at Dream, smug and satisfied.

“You are...” On the path beside them, there is approaching noise. 

“Yes?” Closer, now. A few meters away, at most.

Dream pulls back, eyes locked on the path, suddenly serious. His words are forgotten, disrupted by their approaching company. “Run,” Dream tells him. And George listens.

–––

Clay stays there after George takes off, out of sight and out of mind.

The group approaching was mere foot soldiers of no particular importance. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was _Clay’s_ importance. Those people knew him. They would surely recognize his mask and then his bare face, standing in an alleyway, pressed forehead-to-forehead. They would’ve asked questions. Questions that Clay doesn’t, and will never, have the answers for. It was better to send George off altogether.

That doesn’t mean it was easier. 

It hurt like hell to send him away, and it hurts even more to think about the encounter, only this hurt is in an entirely different way. He never expected George to come to his camp, to his home. To look up at him with those dark eyes, to touch his chest. 

Clay stands in the alleyway, slumped against a wall with shut eyes, reliving the experience in his head, over and over. Those expressive eyes. That gentle touch. 

After ten minutes, he finally opens his eyes and forces himself to stop reminiscing. Ten minutes should’ve been enough time for George to run away from the camp, or at the very least, out of it. Clay steps back onto the path and takes an immediate turn, right into his home. He walks over to his bed and collapses into the pillow. He shoves his arm beneath the pillow to adjust it and gets a paper cut in return.

Clay sits up and throws the pillow clear to the other side of the room. He snatches up the paper, ignoring the pain and the welling blood. He unfolds it quickly, and hungrily reads every word.

–––

_My Dream,_

_You say your fingers are important to me, but you dedicated an entire sentence to my hands on a bow. I suppose I can’t say anything; I did the same. As for our next meeting… I think that’ll be a fight. It may be of an entirely different kind, but it’ll be a fight nonetheless. I think our next meeting will be soon. Perhaps even when this letter arrives._

_Who am I kidding – if all goes well, I won’t be seeing you at all._

_If._

_If I’m not found. If I’m not slaughtered within the first five seconds of me being in your camp. I only got to the sea last time with the help of a backpack’s worth of invisibility potions, and incredible luck. I’m not sure that can be replicated. But don’t worry – I have a plan. You’re gonna hate me for it, I think, just as much as you will love me for it._

_You have to understand. I want to see you, Dream. So fucking bad. But being around you, with you… It distracts me. I know that if I see you, I will lose track of time. I will stay with you, entranced by your words and your being, just as I am when I read your letters. Only then I’ll be in your camp. Every second I’m there is an added risk, and I cannot bear the thought of dying when I’ve just now met you. I can’t possibly die before I’ve learned all there is to know about you._

_I suppose I owe you the answers to your questions, don’t I? Very well._

_I love the rain, and the sky in the morning, and the moon. I love blues and grays and whites, though as of late I’ve become partial to green, on the rare occasion I can see it. As for where I love… I’m not sure. I visited the mountains once. That was nice. Calm. Serene. The complete opposite of you. I think you would like it, though. I’d love to take you there one day but then again, I’d love to take you anywhere. I want to take you to every place I’ve ever loved, and every place I’ll ever go._

_Always yours,_

_Not Found_

_P.S. If you hadn’t guessed it already – and I’m sure you have, but just in case – this is me waving the white flag. Surrendering to you, admitting to you what I’ve denied to myself for too long. It’s like what you said: I cannot put a name to it for fear of ruining it. I cannot put my feelings into words, not really, because to do so would be to confine this – to confine us. And I don’t want to do that._   
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> george goes into the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a long one today, y'all. hope you like it.

After their meeting, George is beaming.

He got back to his own camp unharmed and unfound and warm all over. He’d collapsed into his bed and stared at the ceiling, his fingers tracing over his neck. He could still feel Dream’s hand there, warm and real. He fell asleep like that – hand to throat, lips curved into a smile.

The next two days follow a similar routine. 

George wakes up from a green-tinged sleep. He goes around the camp with a smile on his face and he does his job at the infirmary, of course, but he also lingers around the supply drops. He searches for stained paper in everything. In the trees, on the roofs of their tents. Everywhere. He finds nothing, and he doesn’t even care. He still has Dream’s past letters and the memories of their meeting, of Dream a breath away from his face, of that wonderful smile. It’s enough. 

On the third day, something strange happens. 

George is in the infirmary, where he’s been all day, waiting for wounded soldiers to patch up. He’s only helped three people so far, and two of those were Tommy and Tubbo, injured because they’d been bucked off of horses they were trying to train. George has never seen so few injuries in a day. It had to be a record of sorts. It’s something he should celebrate, but he can’t find it in himself to. Fewer deaths on their side meant more on the SMP’s. On Dream’s. Perhaps even Dream himself.

He shoves the thought away. Dream isn’t dead – it simply isn’t possible. What is possible, however, is the ending of the war. It’s gone on for so long that it feels odd to imagine a life without it, without constant blood and violence. And up until today, it  _ was  _ all blood and violence. It was always injured soldiers, packed into his infirmary, barely clinging onto life. But that flow of soldiers has slowed. Does that mean the war has slowed, too? Does that mean the end is coming?

When George thinks of going home, he’s happy. Excited, even. But then he thinks of his feelings for Dream fading. He thinks of what it would be like to walk around without noticing the green in everything he sees, wonders how it would feel to wake up and fall asleep without that feeling of hope in his chest. Hope of receiving another letter, of reading Dream’s words. 

No matter how hard he tries to stop it, sadness always settles over him after thinking about Dream. George knows why. Those letters have become something more. George has become truly attached to them, to Dream and his words. If that affection was ever found out by either side… It’d ruin their lives. It’d ruin the war. You can make excuses for treason; you cannot do the same with love.

Love. The thought makes George feel sick. What he feels for Dream isn’t love; it’s more and less than that. It’s a partnership of sorts, a give and take of change and new experiences. 

George forces himself to come back to reality. He pulls off his goggles, putting them into his pocket. The world reverts back to yellows and blues. He straps his knife to his belt and steps out of the infirmary, into the cool night. The sun has just set. The soldiers should be returning soon.

As if on cue, George hears several whoops by the south gate. Sapnap leads the crowd, dressed in toe-to-chest netherite. He carries his helmet under one arm and a bag full of enderpearls in the other. George’s eyes go wide. He rushes towards the soldiers, towards Sapnap. His fingers curl around Sapnap’s forearm, stopping him. “How the hell did you get those?” George asks. He’s still staring at the glittering pearls. There’s over three dozen, at the very least.

Sapnap grins, wild and victorious. “We took out the entire enderman legion. I think Ranboo  _ cried  _ when he saw their bodies on the floor.”

“How?”

“They were alone. When we started fighting them, some foot soldiers arrived, but there was no one of any real talent,” Sapnap explains. He’s practically glowing, he’s so happy. “Y’know, I kept thinking  _ someone  _ would show up. Either Clay or that pig leader of theirs, but no one ever did. I haven’t even seen Clay in days. If I’m being honest, I think they’re scared of us. We totally scared them off,” he rambles, but George stopped listening after Sapnap mentioned the leader. He goes through the conversation again in his head, brows knitting together.

“Clay?”

Sapnap nods enthusiastically, smile turning smug. “Yeah, Clay. You know him.”

George shakes his head, utterly lost. 

Sapnap looks at him like he’s dumb. “ _ Clay.  _ The fighter. The masked one.” George freezes. Sapnap keeps talking, growing increasingly surprised. “George, I’ve fought him, like, six times. He’s the one that sent that arrow through my arm! And the one I dove in lava for… You seriously don’t remember him?” Sapnap laughs, big and far too loud. “Man, you really got a bad memory, huh?”

“The worst.”

Sapnap laughs again, like this is some involved joke. Sweat traces the length of George’s spine as he forces out a laugh of his own. George gives Sapnap a tight smile before he walks away with his fists balled at his sides. Dream –  _ Clay  _ – hasn’t been fighting for  _ days.  _ George can’t remember him ever taking a break. Dream’s their best fighter – he’s  _ always  _ on the field. What happened to him? George knows their meeting was risky, but was it  _ too  _ risky? Had someone seen him leaving? Was it somehow traced back to him? Back to Dream?

His heart beats in his throat. His thoughts twist and twist until they’re something ugly and unrecognizable. Someone must’ve seen them together or seen George leaving or  _ something  _ and told the Blade. They must’ve found Dream, and the letters, and killed him. 

George knows what he said. He knows that he said that Dream was the best, that they couldn’t possibly kill him, and he’d believed those words with the whole of his heart at the time. But now all he can think about is those letters, those words written with care on too-thick paper, and Dream’s body. His quick, agile body, the one that can dodge every arrow, block any strike. That body, lying on the ground. Dead, and labeled a traitor. All because George went somewhere he shouldn’t have.

George walks laps around the camp, over and over, trying to clear his racing thoughts. He walks until his feet go numb, even as the day fades into night. 

Another hour passes. He can’t feel his legs, and his shoelaces have come untied. He stops by a tree, kneels down. Behind him, dry leaves are crushed. George whips around.

Dream stands there. Dream.

He is dressed in black and carrying nothing. George looks at his hands, empty and open. There is a trace of fear on his face, buried beneath his white-toothed smile. 

George cannot help himself. He runs at Dream without fully thinking it through, unsure if he’s going to tackle him or kiss him or both. George’s face is bare now; both of theirs are.

In the end, George doesn’t do either. Instead he grabs Dream by the shoulders and pushes, throwing him back into the tree behind him. George pins him with one arm and holds his knife to Dream’s throat with the other, centimeters away from his jugular.

Dream laughs.

There is no fear, no panic. There is only Dream and his tea-kettle laugh, soft and wheezing. George throws the knife to the side. It sticks in the trunk of a nearby tree before falling into the pile of leaves beneath it. He lets go of Dream, takes a few steps back to give him space. Dream steps forward in return, closing the gap. Warmth appears in George’s chest, red and burning-hot.

“How are you here? I thought you were dead,” George says. The words feel too loud for the quiet forest. 

“Dead? But I’ve only just met you,” Dream replies, a too-big smile on his face. The reminder of his last letter has his cheeks going alarmingly warm. George tries desperately to calm them down. It doesn’t work. 

“How are you here?” George tries again, firmer this time. He doesn’t like the way Dream’s smile grows. It’s more confident now, more smug. 

“I’ve been camped out in the trees for the past few days. Left the night I saw you,” he finally answers. 

“So you’re here to deliver a letter, then? Well, where is it?” George asks. He makes a whole show of looking around, hand to brow, searching their surroundings. The more confident he acts, the more confident he’ll be, right? “Is it in my bed? Or in the farm? Oh no, let me  _ really _ guess – it’s in my infirmary, isn’t it?”

His attempts to rattle Dream don’t seem to work. Dream only stands there and watches him with a raised brow, like he’s amused. “Are you finished?” Dream asks. George wishes he had more to say, but he doesn’t, so he nods. Dream turns towards the tree he was pinned to, and begins to climb it. “There is no letter,” he tells George. Dream stops halfway up the tree and looks down at George. “Are you coming, or am I going to sit up here alone?”

George’s feet move without command. He finds himself climbing the tree behind Dream. They sit across from each other on two particularly sturdy branches, pressed knee to knee. “What do you mean there is no letter? Why come all this way just to give me nothing?”

“I’m not giving you  _ nothing.  _ I’m giving you me.”

George’s breath catches in his throat. Dream came all the way here so that they could be together. Properly, this time, without any fear of discovery. “There’s nothing to give; I’ve always had you,” George states. It's a fact at this point. He knocks his knee against Dream’s, intertwines their calves absently. 

Dream laughs, soft and low. “I didn’t know you were so possessive,” he teases.

George doesn’t even have the decency to blush. “I’ve always known you are. After all, you did write me a letter for a  _ mask.  _ Don’t tell me you’re still holding out for that. You’re not getting it back, you know. I really did mean it when I said it was mine.”

“I can think of a few things I want more than my mask.” Dream’s looking at him now, staring at him with those gold eyes. It feels suffocating, to have the whole of Dream’s attention on him like this. 

A familiar rush runs through George’s body. His fingers shake in his lap, jittery and godly. He should’ve known that an in-person Dream would be as potent as his letter-self, if not more so. Somehow, he doesn’t think he minds. 

George looks up at Dream, right into those eyes. George has always been better with actions than he is with words. He leans in, closer and closer, that godly rush fueling him better than any potion can. He stops a hair away from Dream’s face. The tips of their noses brush together ever so slightly. Dream inhales sharply; George suppresses a grin. “Like what?” 

“You really are a tease,” is all Dream says. He speaks the words quietly, more breath than word. “It won’t be enough, you know.”

“What won’t be?”

“One kiss.”

George falters. Dream continues.

“You must understand – when I said you were more important than this war, I meant it.” Dream’s face has shifted. It’s no longer cool and confident but nervous and guarded. His gaze flickers to the grass floor. “I think of you. Often. I think of you when I see the sky and the sea; when I collect ink for my pen; when I review my place in this war.” 

Dream pauses, but George cuts him off before he can speak again. “I dream of you,” George says, a confession of his own. The words come out quick and muddled, like he can’t get them out fast enough. “I can’t see green when I’m awake, but when I’m asleep, I dream only in it. I dream of green trees and green sugarcane and green bed sheets. Every second of every day, all I can think of is green green  _ green. _ It is exhausting, and yet I can’t get enough.”

Dream looks back up at him. George does not know who leans in first, if it is he or Dream or some combination of the two of them. All he knows is that Dream’s mouth is on his, solid and sure. Dream kisses like he fights – deft and confident and a little needy, too. George happily obliges. His hand finds Dream’s, laces their fingers together as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He feels Dream grab the hem of his shirt. He takes it in his fist, tight, like he’s afraid George is going to disappear. 

George’s thumb passes over Dream’s knuckles, over and over.  _ I am here,  _ it says.  _ I am here and I am with you and I am not going anywhere.  _

They only part when George’s lungs begin to burn, and even then, George doesn’t want to pull away. But he needs air, and he’s sure Dream does too. George pulls away, struggling to catch his breath. He can see Dream’s chest moving, a rapid up and down, and knows he is in the same boat. George smiles. Dream laughs, and the sound is melodic. He presses their foreheads together like he did back in the SMP camp, only this time it’s skin to skin, and so much more real. 

“I’ve wanted to do that since you shot that damn arrow at me,” Dream admits.

“Not before?”

Dream hums. “Especially before. The moment you started _really_ fighting back, I wanted to kiss you right then and there, just to show you how fucking grateful I was to finally have a real challenge.” He lifts their hands between them and presses a kiss to George’s fingers. “You don’t know what you did for me that day, George.”

George sits up quickly, eyes wide. “You know my name?”

Dream is slower to rise, but he does so nonetheless. He releases George’s shirt; it falls crumpled against his lap. Dream uses his free hand to fiddle with George’s fingers, and George lets him. “I’ve always known.”

“Always?” The word comes out as a whisper. George isn’t sure why he’s so worried.

Dream nods once, solemn. “Always,” he confirms.

“But your first letter–”

“I didn’t address it to you because I didn’t want to risk another finding it and assuming the worst. That you were a traitor, or conspiring with the enemy,” Dream answers simply. “I could not bear the thought of hurting you, even then.”

Shock settles over George. And then: heat. It rises from his chest and up his neck, to his face and cheeks and even to the tips of his ears. Dream must notice, because he smiles, and suddenly all of George’s worries are soothed. “I know your name too,” he admits. “Which do you prefer?”

Dream’s answer comes quickly – automatic. “Whatever you wish to call me.”

A smile spreads over George’s lips. He raises his hand and cups Dream’s cheek; Dream leans into the touch. “Dream,” George decides. “My Dream.” He leans in again. And then, before their lips can touch, a bell rings. 

They each pull back. Dream clutches his hand tighter as he looks around, eyes narrowed, like a hawk searching for prey. George is decidedly calmer. 

“It’s the final bell from my camp. I need to get home before they lock me out,” George says, but he doesn’t let go of Dream’s hand. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to leave Dream, not now, not ever. But his side will be concerned if they wake and find the infirmary still closed, and besides, George has a duty. If not to the war, then to his men. 

“I suppose you do,” Dream murmurs, and George silently thanks God that he didn’t try to argue. George doesn’t think he would’ve been able to say no, had Dream asked him to stay. Dream releases his hand and goes down the tree first. The moment George is back on the floor, their hands are clasped once more, as if they’d never separated in the first place. 

“At least let me walk you there,” Dream says, and George’s previous suspicion is confirmed. He can’t say no to Dream. 

George nods, wordless. They walk back to the L’Manberg camp in a sad, comfortable silence, only broken by George a dozen blocks away from the north gate. They’re hidden in the shade of a big spruce tree, just out of sight. “I want to see you again,” he tells Dream.

“I’ll leave you a letter with instructions of how to  _ properly _ get into my camp,” Dream says. George rolls his eyes, unable to keep the smile off his face. “Expect to find it in a tree in the next few days.”

“You’re not gonna tell me which one?”

There’s a twinkle in Dream’s eye. “What’s the fun in that?”

Now George is  _ really  _ smiling, even as he shakes his head. He releases Dream’s hand, turning away. “Goodbye, Dream.”

He watches Dream from the corner of his eye. Sees the way he freezes, then pouts, before finally grabbing George by the shirt. He pulls him into a kiss, fast and sudden. It’s over as soon as it starts, but it still ignites sparks all over. “Goodbye, George,” Dream tells him, and George has to walk away to keep from kissing him again. 

George walks all the way into camp without turning around. He enters undetected, and even makes it back to the infirmary without being noticed. When he gets there, he finds everything already packed up and put away. He makes a mental note to thank Niki in the morning. He’ll have to get her some of those apples she likes.

George stays in the infirmary for a few moments, taking the time to refill the oil in the lanterns so that they’ll be ready for the next day. He runs out halfway through, so he leaves the infirmary and heads for the supply room at the front of camp. He’s passing the east gate when he hears it – commotion, coming from the north. 

He drops the empty bottle of oil. It shatters on impact. He doesn’t hear. George runs towards the north gate. Around him, dozens of other soldiers run as well, some armed, some not. He blends right in. He feels their excitement and their adrenaline, but he does not share it with them. He only feels worry and dread, thick in his throat, stinging his eyes. 

The second he can see what’s happening, he stops. Someone runs into him; George doesn’t care. He stares in horror as he watches soldier upon soldier run at Dream, who is fighting them off with nothing but his hands. He knocks out Ponk with a punch to the temple, disorients Purpled with an elbow to the jaw. All around him, soldiers fall. 

He is going to get out of this. George knows he will. He is the best; he  _ will  _ prevail.

Someone runs into the fight. All George can see is a white bandana, and all he can feel is fear in his gut, heavy as a rock. For Dream. For Sapnap. 

George watches as Dream balls his fist and whips around. And then, the strangest thing happens. The second Dream’s facing Sapnap, his hand relaxes. He goes still, his shoulders limp, even as Sapnap punches him. Once. Twice. Dream falls to his knees, head down. Sapnap comes up behind him and ties his hands behind his back. Sapnap is speaking, but it all sounds like white noise to George.

Dream lifts his head. His nose is bloody, likely broken, and his lip is already starting to swell. His eyes seem to search the crowd before they finally land on George. Their eyes meet, and George knows what he’s thinking. The trade off. The mask for Sapnap’s life. George never returned the mask, but Dream spared Sapnap anyway.

Sapnap pulls Dream to his knees. He tugs Dream along, entirely too harsh. George turns away before he sees anymore.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> clay experiences l'manberg hospitality.

Clay wakes up in a dark room.

Obsidian surrounds him completely, save for a small skylight on the ceiling. It is utterly bare. There is not even a bed. Clay slept on the cold, hard floor the entire night without even George’s letters to cushion him. They were in his pocket the night before, pressed against his thigh, as they always are. Clay kept them on him for safety, so that they could never be found by his comrades. But his plan backfired. Those letters were found, only it wasn’t by the SMP. It was by L’Manberg last night, during the ambush. One of the soldiers had patted his pockets down before Clay was thrown in the cell. The letters were all he had – Clay hadn’t even brought a weapon. He was so sure that he wouldn’t get caught. But he was, and now those letters were in L’Manberg’s hands. These soldiers aren’t stupid. They will connect the dots. They will realize it was George who wrote them.

Clay should’ve destroyed them after reading. He should have torn them into shreds and ate the pieces. He should not have risked George’s life over some words, but he just couldn’t convince himself to do it. Those words are  _ his.  _ His to read, his to cherish. They are pieces of George, evidence of his affection. Clay could not get rid of them. He cannot even bear to think about it, even now, even in this cell. 

He cannot bear to think about a lot of things.

George, holding a knife to his throat, pressing in. George, an inch from his face, with that challenging smile. George, speaking those quiet and rambled words, spilling out of him like blood from a wound.

The door cracks open.

Clay does not think of soft skin in the moon’s light. He does not dare hope.

Words flow in from the outside. Bits and pieces, growing louder as they close in on the door,

“What even happened last night?” someone asks. No – not someone. Clay tries to pinch himself to check that he’s not dreaming, but his wrists are bound, and he pinches nothing but air. Still, he leans forward, and strains his ears. 

“I saw him outside of our camp. He was walking away from it, but I’m sure he was trying to get in.” This one’s Sapnap. It has to be. Clay’s heard his war cries enough times to be able to recognize his voice. “It doesn’t matter now. He’s here, and we’ve won.”

“We haven’t won anything yet,” George says. And then, neutral, he adds, “We could ransom him. His freedom for their surrender. They’d do it. I’m sure they would.”

Sapnap laughs, loud and boisterous. “Why would we do that? We win either way, Georgie. It doesn’t matter if we give him back or not – this war is ours. We may as well kill him, show them that we’re serious. I don’t even know why we’re bothering with healing him.”

“Because we’re not monsters, and he’s sat in pain for long enough. When his death comes, it should be quick. You owe him that much.”

Clay’s hummingbird heart hammers in his chest. George is here. To help him, to heal him. Clay can’t see him.  _ Shouldn’t _ see him. He will give himself away – give them both away.

But Clay has no choice in the matter, and the door fully opens. George steps in. He’s wearing his goggles and his blue uniform, the one Clay loves so much. He has a bag in his hand, overflowing with medical supplies. 

Sapnap walks in behind him, sword in hand. He stays by the door, and Clay forces himself to look at him. He can’t look at George. If he does, he’ll give himself away. 

“This is our doctor. He’s going to heal you now so we can torture you later. Fun, right?” Sapnap has a true smile on his face, the one Clay most often sees in the midst of their battles. It is usually a comforting sight, like a hug from an old friend. Now it only reminds him of his ever-approaching death. 

Clay stares at Sapnap, silent. 

Sapnap’s smile drops, bored. “God, this is pitiful,” he spits out, sounding disappointed. Sapnap turns towards George now, and Clay’s eyes stay locked on his profile. “I’ll be outside if you need anything. He won’t hurt you.” Sapnap whips back around towards Clay, points that sword right at him. “You won’t hurt him. I’ll fucking kill you if you do.” Seemingly pleased with his threat, Sapnap exits the cell, and leaves the two of them alone.

The second the door is shut, George is beside him. “Are you okay? Did he– Are you–” George cannot seem to get the words out, but it’s okay. He doesn’t have to. Clay knows what he’s saying. He always knows.

“I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me too bad. I’ll survive.” Clay sits up straighter, and grimaces. Every movement causes pain to bloom all over. Sapnap cracked more than a few ribs with his onslaught, but that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except for George and his safety. Clay grabs George’s hand when it reaches for the hem of his shirt, stopping him. Clay looks at George, serious. “He has your letters.”

George’s face falls, and everything in Clay’s chest breaks. “How?” 

Clay’s gaze falls. He stares at the rope around his ankles as he speaks, too ashamed to look at George. “I had them on me. I always do. I keep them on me to keep them safe. When I was captured, he found them. He has them all, George. I… I’m sorry.” 

George frowns and clenches his teeth. There’s a cord sticking out in his throat, just beneath his set jaw. “Don’t be sorry. It doesn’t matter,” George says, determined. “My name isn’t on it. It’s fine.  _ We’re  _ fine.”

Clay chokes out a laugh. It hurts his chest, and leaves him wincing. “We are not  _ fine,  _ George. I’m going to die.” And then, a second later, a lightbulb goes off. Clay’s head shoots up, eyes wide. “But you don’t have to. You can go. You can run. You still have time – they still might not know. George, you  _ need  _ to get out of here.”

George looks at him like he’s crazy. Maybe Clay is, but he’s also right. This is how he can protect George. This is how George can survive. 

After a few long moments, George shakes his head. “No.”

“ _ George. _ ”

“I said no, Dream. I’m not running. I’m not going anywhere without you. I’ll convince them to release you,” he says, and he sounds so sure that Clay wants to believe him, wants to believe that he’s telling the truth, but he can’t. 

“You cannot convince them to release me. I heard you two outside. Sapnap is going to kill me. And I’m okay with that, just as long as  _ you  _ get away. You should go now. I can distract them while you go.”

George laughs, harsh and humorless. “Distract them, Dream? You are tied up. You cannot distract anyone. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. You’re getting out of here. We both are. Now shut up and let me help you,” he says. He pulls a cloth from his bag and begins wiping the blood from Dream’s face with slow, gentle movements.

George doesn’t understand. Clay needs to  _ make  _ him understand.

“Have you ever had a traitor?”

George freezes, and then resumes the wiping of Clay’s blood. “No, we haven’t.”

“We did,” Clay says. The words are pouring out of him now, of their own free will. “She wasn’t even really a traitor. She was only a deserter. Not even that. She hadn’t left yet – she never got the chance. Techno killed her in her sleep. She simply wanted to live, and he killed her for it. If that’s what she got for  _ thinking  _ of leaving, I wonder what he’ll do to me.”

He watches George swallow, watches the bob in his throat. But despite Clay’s best efforts, the words don’t seem to faze George. “Nothing. He’ll do nothing to you. He doesn’t even know you’re a traitor. He only thinks you’re a prisoner.”

“He will know, George. He will find out about those letters somehow, and he will know. I am a dead man but you… You don’t have to be.” Clay’s voice breaks. Unshed tears sting his eyes. One spills over, and burns all the way down his bloody face.

George cups his face. His touch is gentle, and his hands are warm. He wipes away the tea, and tilts Clay’s face towards him. Clay looks at him, at his warm, determined eyes, and he feels like he did that first day he met George – impressed, and intrigued, and a little bit scared. “If you are a dead man, then so am I,” George whispers. He presses a kiss to Clay’s cheek, his brow, his bottom lip, and Clay knows he cannot argue anymore. “But please, Dream, let me make you a dead man with no festering wounds.”

Clay laughs against George’s lips, and it warms his chest as much as it hurts it. He sits back and lets George rub salve into his skin, allows him to pour sips of regeneration into his mouth. They are both dead men, yes, but they are not alone. They have each other, and that is enough.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sapnap reads a letter.

In the L’Manberg war room, Sapnap reads a letter.

It has been two days since they first captured Clay, and Sapnap is just now getting around to reading the letters. He is only taking the time to read them now because Wilbur and Ponk are pestering him about it, saying that they couldn’t read them before he did. They claim it’s because Clay’s his enemy and he  _ deserves  _ to be the one to read them first, but Sapnap thinks it’s just because they are too afraid of what they might find in the letters. Will it be threats written in blood, or detailed descriptions of their formations? Whatever is in there, Sapnap will read it and deal with it. He always does.

The first letter he picks up is very clearly the first. It is thin and worn and obviously well-loved. In many places, he can see his fingers through the paper, buried beneath blue ink and wayward grains of sand. The words are written carefully – precisely – as if it’s author had a lot to say and only so much paper. The letter talks of a marred mask and the beating sun and a friend who has taken a hit. Sapnaps’s arm burns beneath his shirt, and he doesn’t know why.

He sets the letter down. Moves onto the next.

This one is written on thicker paper, and the words are written in that same blue. At first, Sapnap believed it to be a joke, a taunt of some sort. He’d thought these letters were the SMP’s attempt at making them paranoid, at making them think there was a spy in their midst. But these letters are not from the SMP, and they are most certainly not from a spy. 

The second letter consists of nothing but confessions. It mentions treason and perhaps even partakes in it, but that’s not its main intent. No – it’s main intent is to declare new, godly feelings. It is signed off with  _ Yours,  _ and its writer does the same looping  _ Y  _ as a friend of his. Dread pools in his gut. 

Sapnap does not want to read the final letter, but he must. If he stops now, he will have to pass the letters off to Wilbur to examine, and he cannot do that. Will not.

The final letter details a plan – a plan to sneak into enemy camps, to drop off this letter. Sapnap only knows one man who’s smart enough to pull off something like that, and he writes his doctor’s notes in blue. 

Sapnap reads George’s letter once. Twice. The words  _ I cannot bear the thought of dying when I’ve just now met you  _ echo in his head like the worst kind of song because Sapnap knows the truth. He knows that George will die when this is found. He will die right after meeting Clay – his Dream, he’d called him. He will die just after his first taste of true happiness.

Sapnap cannot let that happen.

The other soldiers don’t know George like he does, but they’ll figure it out if given the time, and they  _ do  _ have the time. They will kill George if he’s still here. If he is not already gone by the time this gets out, thousands of blocks from this camp, from this war. 

Sapnap knows this isn’t his place. George is a traitor. He may not have traded secrets and battle plans, but he is a traitor nonetheless. The law demands that he be punished for his actions, that he be held accountable. But George is his best friend and Sapnap won’t let him die. Even though they annoy each other, even though they fight, they are family, and Sapnap will not let his family die.

He gathers the letters in his hands. Folds them carefully, following the creases. He walks out the door of the war room, and he makes a plan. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> clay receives a gift.

When Sapnap comes into the cell, Clay is convinced this is the end.

He hasn’t come in since that first day with George. George, on the other hand, has been in both days, claiming that he needs to heal Clay more. They’d been healing his ribs one at a time, just to ensure George always had a reason to see him. Whenever George wasn’t with him, another soldier was, either the man with the beanie or the one in the purple shirt. They were always questioning him, asking him about the SMP. He never spoke unless it was to provoke them, and sometimes they hit him, but the wounds were always healed in a few hours anyway. The lack of lasting pain calmed Clay down, even helped him feel comfortable in his cell.

But of course, comfort never lasts, and Sapnap is living proof of that. Sapnap storms into the cell in the dead of night and slams the door shut behind him. It shuts with an audible click, but Sapnap still glances back at it. That’s how Clay knows something is off. 

He’s unable to think about it further. Suddenly Sapnap is right in front of him, real close, all serious. He’s kneeling, eye-level with Clay. He has a knife in one hand, and a shimmering pearl in the other. “You have five minutes,” Sapnap tells him. He raises the knife; Clay flinches.

“Five minutes to wh–”

“I have bought you  _ five minutes. _ ” Instead of driving the knife into Clay’s skin, he cuts the ropes. Every single one of them. In a matter of seconds, Clay is free. Sapnap grabs him and hauls him up, not giving him any time to adjust to the sudden mobility. “George is waiting for you. He said he’d be in the last place you were careful. Don’t tell me where. I can’t know,” Sapnap spits out, looking troubled. 

“Why are you–”

Sapnap suddenly looks at him, eyes dark and dire. “George is my family. You go to him, and you get him away from here.” There’s a brief pause, and Sapnap seems to grow smaller in front of him. His face goes open and honest. Clay can see every emotion pass through. The anger; the fear; the worry. When he speaks this time, the words are fragile and quiet, and he can’t seem to find Clay’s eyes. “He called you his Dream. That has to count for something. Protect him with your life, Clay. Please.”

Suddenly, Clay understands. He and Sapnap are not so different, not anymore. They have two things in common: their skill in fighting, and their devotion to a certain black-haired boy. “I will,” Clay promises – a vow.

Sapnap nods once, and the clouds reappear on his face as he straightens his posture. He flips the knife in his hand and holds the handle out to Clay. His foot taps the ground as Clay takes the knife, a rapid thump to match Clay’s rapid heart. He holds out the enderpearl next. Clay grabs it, and he doesn’t think of Ranboo’s dead troops, doesn’t think of the lives sacrificed to obtain this pearl. He takes it and he holds it, white-knuckled, until it’s more part of his hand than not. “Four minutes, now.”

Clay runs to the door. He stops right before it, his mouth opening. He’s quiet, for a moment, unsure of what to say. He doesn’t know how he can pay Sapnap back for this kindness. In the end, all Clay can say is, “Thank you,” before he runs out the door, throws the pearl, and fizzes out of existence. 

–––

Clay materializes outside the gate. 

There are wild boars to his left, and patrolling guards to his right. His heart pounds in his chest, his ears, his throat. He does not stop. 

He does not know the area around L’Manberg’s camp, but it doesn’t matter. He finds the smell of blood and fear, and he runs the opposite way. The last place he was careful wasn’t on a battlefield at all.

It takes him eight minutes to reach the L’Mantree, and that’s with his feet barely hitting the ground. His lungs are burning when he finally slows. His heart is threatening total failure. But none of that matters when he sees the tree. Or, rather, the person beneath it. 

George is slumped against the trunk with his knees to his chest, waiting. He wears the ceramic mask over his face, like he did all those nights ago. He has a backpack on either side of him, and a quiver slung over his shoulder. In his hand, he holds that borrowed bow.

When he sees Clay, he drops it all. He scrambles up and shoves the mask up with one hand, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. 

“Dream,” he says, breathless. And Dream – for he is Dream now – exhales.

“George.” Dream cannot get out any other words. He steps towards him with aching legs and practically collapses against him, clutching George tightly. George is here. They’re both here. At the L’Mantree, safe for the time being. 

George laughs, and every ache in Dream’s body disappears. He holds George against him with a newfound strength. He never wants to let go again. 

Dream finally parts, but he keeps George’s hand in his, their fingers loosely interlocked. “How did you get Sapnap to let me go?” 

George’s eyebrows draw together. A little crease appears between them, and Dream wants to smooth it away with his thumb. He does. “I didn’t say anything to him. He came to me with a plan. He told me to pack my bags and find somewhere to go. Said he’d handle the rest. He knew, somehow.” George looks at the ground in thought. His eyes return to Dream’s a moment later. “The letters.”

“Do you…”

George shakes his head. "He kept the letters. Had to. There had to be something to explain our absence."

Dream expected to feel more distraught over the lost letters. He feels sad, of course, but other than that, there’s nothing… “Well. I guess that’s the end of those.” Dream looks down at their joined hands, and a sort of calm hums in his chest. He looks back up at George. “Where to first?”

The smile on George’s face makes the pain from the last few days all worth it. “The mountains,” he answers. He leans in, kisses Dream’s left cheek. “The jungle.” His right. “Anywhere and everywhere.”

“Every place you’ve ever loved, and every place you’ll ever go, right? You just need to lead the way.”

George steps back and tugs Dream along with shining eyes. Together, they pick up the forgotten items, and they run.


	11. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sapnap visits a friend.

The war has been over for the better part of a year, and still Sapnap cannot seem to rest.

It ended with a truce on a cold fall morning. The air was thin and foggy, and both parties were drenched in blood and down bad. Quackity had a pickaxe through the jaw. Ranboo had a gaping hole in his stomach. There was a pause on the battlefield, a collective inhale, and then Wilbur broke through. He dropped his weapons and walked to the front of their army, unarmed and unafraid, and called for a truce. Technoblade walked towards him with the SMP general, Philza, by his side, and accepted the truce with an odd sort of kindness on his face.

And just like that, the war was over. 

Some accepted the new peace more than others. Tommy and Tubbo spent the day celebrating with some new disks they’d found, while Niki sulked off into the woods muttering about how she needed to burn the memories.

Sapnap was one of the lucky ones. His head was not so haunted with memories of war, and he was not nearly as injured as the rest of them. He left that night with all of his limbs intact, only sporting an axe wound on his back. It hurt like hell, but it healed as fast as it’d come. The same can’t be said for Quackity — he’s eight months post-op and still isn’t eating solid food. Sapnap should be grateful that the war is over. He should be grateful for a chance to rest and heal, to finally live his life as he should. But he just cannot stop  _ thinking. _ There is an energy in his bones, in the very core of his being. It is constant and never-ending, following him around like a ghost. It is not the same nightmares that plague some of the other soldiers – it almost feels worse. He is restless and rushing, always ready to fight a war that no longer exists. What makes it worse is that he’s unable to talk about his problems because these days, the war isn’t spoken about. 

After the war, L’Manberg’s little corner of the world was returned to as it was before. It is quiet, and repetitive, and a hell of a lot less bloody. But it isn’t the same. If it were the same, George would be by his side. Tending to his burned hands, bleaching his stained bandanas. 

Sapnap has never been apart from him for so long. They have known each other for years. Sapnap was the first person George met when he first moved from across the sea – his first friend. Missing George is like missing a piece of himself. A very annoying piece, but a piece nonetheless.

So when a teal bird comes and drops a letter on his head while he’s cutting firewood, containing only coordinates, he does not think twice. He drops his axe where he stands and packs his bags and leaves. 

He can do that now. Leave whenever he wants. He does not have to ask Wilbur for permission. He does not have to worry about having someone to cover his position on the field. He can just grab his things and go. It is an unexpected perk of no longer being a soldier.

Sapnap takes his horse and loads a compass with the coordinates. He follows them west. He rides for three days straight, through the desert and the taiga, and even then, it’s not far enough. He leaves his horse in a random stable, and catches the train through the Badlands. It takes him another week for the compass to finally start pointing anywhere other than up. It spins wildly to the right, and then straight back. Sapnap jumps from the train, and lands a hundred blocks outside a village.

The village itself is nestled in a dark oak forest. On one side, there are mountains so tall they disappear into the clouds, and on the other, the stretching sea. Sapnap stumbles to the village and follows the compass right through it, onto the sandy beach and a woven doormat. He raises his hand to knock, but he doesn’t need to. The door flies off the hinges.

Clay stands in the doorway. His hair is damp and curled at the ends, as if he just finished a swim. His skin is tan and freckled. He is smiling, happy in a way Sapnap has never seen him before. Not even during their best battles.

“You got the note,” Clay says, and all Sapnap can do is nod, wordless. Clay laughs and steps aside, as if they’re old friends. Sapnap supposes they are now. “Come in. George is putting away the dishes. You can take off your shoes, make yourself at home.”

Sapnaps steps into the home slowly – hesitantly. He looks around. The room is bright and open, and there are windows lining every wall. The air smells of sea-foam and ocean spray. Clay’s ceramic mask is hung between two windows, right above a hand-carved bow that Sapnap doesn’t recognize. The furniture is lined in threadbare blankets and creased all over, worn down with love. There are things everywhere. A jukebox here, a jacket there. The house is small and cluttered and entirely theirs. 

There is a yell from another room, and a crash. Clay only shakes his head, like this is something he’s used to. Tenderness appears on his face as a blue-toned blur enters the room and barrels into Sapnap. All Sapnap can do is hug him tight and hold on.

“You made it!” George yells, right in his ear. Sapnap cannot even grimace. He can only breathe, in and out, and feel peace finally wash over his skin. The war is over. He is reunited with George again. All is right in the world. 

“You’re gonna make me go deaf.” The words come out muffled in George’s shirt. Sapnap pulls back and looks at George. His hair is longer, and he has a sunburn across his cheeks, red and glowing and  _ happy.  _

“Like you weren’t deaf already.”

“That’s rich, coming from  _ you.  _ Aren’t you, like, eighty?”

George smacks his arm. “Shut up, or I’ll send you back to L’Manberg,” he threatens, his words full of warmth. He looks from Sapnap to Clay then back to Sapnap. “You’ve met Dream, right? I mean, obviously. But have you ever really talk–”

“We have. Kind of,” Clay – Dream – says. 

“Kind of? That’s not good enough,” George says, and promptly leaves the room. Dream follows him out, gesturing Sapnap along. He pulls out a chair for Sapnap at the dining table and sits right beside him. George goes back to putting away the dishes, leaving the two of them to their own devices.

“How long have you two lived here?” Sapnap asks, turning towards Dream.

“A few months, now. We lived in the mountains for a little while, and stayed in caves until winter came. Then it got too cold, so we moved here. It’s nice, isn’t it?” Dream looks around the house with this funny look on his face, like he’s in awe of his own home. Maybe he is. Sapnap wouldn’t have expected this life for him, either. Dream was a fighter, like him. The two of them were meant for war and blood, not villages and beach-side homes. But Dream wears domestic bliss better than he ever did armor.

“It is. It wasn’t what I was expecting. After you two left, I wasn’t sure if you were caught. I mean, I never heard anything, but I know Wilbur and Techno both sent people after you, to the mountains. I don’t think they ever sent soldiers out this far, though. I’m glad to see you made it out,” Sapnap tells Dream. He looks around as well, takes in all of the details of the kitchen. It is just as cluttered, just as full of life. There are papers all over, green and blue, stuck to every reachable surface like they’re a part of the decor. Sapnap thinks they are, at first, and then he reads them.  _ Your turn to wash dishes,  _ one reads. A green slip says,  _ Fed Patches before I left. DO NOT!!! feed her again.  _ And, right below it, blue ink is scrawled on blue paper, reading,  _ Too late :) _ . It seems they still send letters, even now, even when they’re in the same home. Something about that makes Sapnap smile.

Dream sees his smile and returns it, pride clear in his face. The smile falters a second later. Dream opens his mouth like he’s hesitant. And then, in a lowered voice, he asks, “The war is…”

“Over. Ended in a truce,” Sapnap tells him, just as quiet. He looks at the kitchen, at George humming to himself as he puts dishes away, blissfully unaware.

Dream only nods, and Sapnap sees his chest fall in relief. “Good, good,” Dream says. “He worries. About you. About Tubbo and Tommy.” Dream says their names like he knows them personally, like they are as much a part of his life as they are George’s. George must tell stories about them. Lord knows he has plenty. 

“He always has. Is he… happy?”

Dream is only beginning to nod when George comes over, a loaf of bread in hand. He sets it in the middle of the table and sits beside Dream. Beneath the table, Sapnap sees their calves intertwine. 

“So, how have you been, Sapnap?” George asks, and he’s looking at Sapnap with his damn doctor eyes, like he’s trying to dissect him from the inside out.

“Good. Would’ve been better if you told me how fuckin’ long this trip would be,” Sapnap says, but there is no real heat. He slices the bread, dips it in oil, and shoves the crust in his mouth. 

“It was worth it though, wasn’t it?”

Sapnap rolls his eyes. “Stop fishing for compliments,” he says around a mouthful of bread. He swallows, and speaks again. “But yeah, it was worth it. I didn’t know a place like this existed. How the hell did  _ you two _ find it?”

“I stayed here for a while before I came to L’Manberg. I didn’t think it still existed, didn’t even see it when we were in the mountains. But one of the residents saw us, I guess. He came and offered us a place to live, and we’ve been here ever since,” George explains.

“So he offered you a place to live, and you just  _ accepted? _ ”

Dream shrugs. “It sounds bad, but it’s not. It’s– Karl’s fine. He’s not a threat. He’s weird as hell and talks about the future a lot, but he’s not a bad guy.”

Sapnap shakes his head, still unable to comprehend accepting an invitation like that. He looks down and watches a brown cat curl around his ankles before it crawls up his pants and into his lap. It lays down there with a purr, making itself at home on Sapnap’s lap. He looks at George and Dream, “Who is…”

“Patches. Our cat,” George answers. Sapnap remembers the note he saw earlier.

“She used to be at my old house, but I couldn’t leave her once I knew I wasn’t going back,” Dream says. He follows with, “George made the plan.”

George turns to him, mouth wide open. “I did  _ not.  _ We both made the plan.”

Dream looks back at him with an easy grin. The affection between them is so thick that Sapnap feels like he’s intruding. “Quit being bashful. Sapnap, I  _ swear  _ he planned it all.”

“And I swear I didn’t!”

Their voices drown out as Sapnap watches them bicker. He sees the love on their faces, raw as an open wound. That boundless energy in Sapnap’s bones settles, disperses into nothing at all. He was worried about George before, about where he’d gone and if he was okay, but he’s seen George now. He’s seen his home and his love and his  _ life, _ and Sapnap knows he’s going to be okay. He can finally rest now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for coming on this journey with me!! i've really appreciated all the love on this fic. i truly couldn't have done it without yall <33 i hope to post a new fic in the next coming weeks, so you can look out for that if you want. again, thank you all!!


End file.
